[Tate’s POV]
My father's expression doesn't shift—not for the guests, not for Harley, not for the wreckage of his younger son still visible on the living room floor.
The performance is seamless, a lifetime of political instinct ensuring that the two men in expensive suits beside him see nothing but composure. But I read the warning in his eyes instantly. A message transmitted in the half-second our gazes connect, clear as a headline.
Don't play games with me.
The presence of colleagues forces civility—Governor Mercer can't dismiss a teenager in front of donors whose money and influence he needs more than his next breath. So he performs.
A nod in Harley's direction, a tight smile that doesn't reach his eyes, a question delivered with the practiced warmth of a campaign stop. "Friends from school visiting, I see. How nice. Everything going well with your studies, Tate?"
"Fine, sir. We were just helping Ezra with a project."
"Wonderful." His gaze slides to Harley for exactly one second, then back to his colleagues, already steering them toward the study. "If you'll excuse us, we have a few more items to review before this evening."
My mother drifts through the background like a ghost in Chanel—wine glass in hand before two o'clock, her smile vacant and practiced, the performance of a woman who stopped being present in any meaningful sense years ago.
She glances at Ezra, at Harley sitting on her imported marble, and registers nothing.
Or registers everything and chooses nothing.
I seize the window. "Come on," I murmur to Harley, my hand finding the small of her back. "Let me show you the rest of the house before they finish their meeting and the atmosphere drops another thirty degrees."
I guide her upstairs, away from the performance, away from my father's surveillance, through hallways lined with family portraits that document generations of Mercers.
"This is the library. Nobody reads. This is the music room. Nobody plays. This is the gallery my mother curated with art she chose because an advisor told her it would appreciate in value."
I gesture at each room with the detachment of a tour guide in a museum nobody visits.
"Welcome to the Mercer residence, where everything is beautiful and nothing is real."
Harley takes it in quietly. The contrast with her apartment is visible in her expression but she doesn't speak it aloud. I see her measuring the silence against Carmen's kitchen, the cold marble against the warmth of a table too small for the family that fills it.
"Your room," she says when we reach the end of the hallway. "Show me."
My room is the one space in this house that feels like mine—football trophies on the shelf, cleats in the corner, a bookshelf with actual books I've actually read.
I close the door behind us and the silence settles differently here. Harley wanders the room, trailing her fingers across my desk, picking up a framed photo.
Then she turns to me with an expression I recognize—directness preparing to launch.
"So, last night. Before Diego tried to murder you through a closed door." She crosses her arms, but the flush creeping up her neck betrays the casual posture. “We should probably talk about what almost happened. Because it almost very much happened, and pretending it didn't seems…"
"Dishonest? You're right, let's be honest."
I lean against the doorframe, letting the grin spread slowly. If only she knew how much I love our little games.
"You bit the forbidden fruit, Valdez, and now you want more. That's completely natural, we can add a part with the casual sexual satisfaction to our agreement. But I want to make sure we're on the same page here—this is just a physical attraction. Chemistry, hormones doing what hormones do. We both understand that, right?"
"Your capacity for delusion is genuinely medical."
She holds my gaze, and beneath the sarcasm I catch something vulnerable—something that wants reassurance she's too proud to ask for.
"And for the record, your mouth is only good for insults and ruining otherwise peaceful moments. That's it."
"Only good for insults." I push off the doorframe, crossing the room with a deliberateness that makes her breath hitch before I'm within arm's reach. "That's your position? You're committing to that statement?"
In one fluid motion, I pivot her backward and down—her back hitting the mattress, her black hair fanning across my sheets, her eyes wide with surprise and something hotter than surprise.
I settle over her, watching her pulse jump at the base of her throat. "What are you…"
"I'm showing you exactly what else my mouth is capable of. Since you seem to need a demonstration."
I start from her jaw, tracing my mouth down her neck, the hollow of her throat where her pulse is hammering. Each button of her jeans opens under my fingers—slow, thorough, each new inch of warmth earning a sound from her that she tries and fails to suppress.
I move lower down her sternum, across her stomach, feeling the muscles tighten and tremble beneath my lips. Her hands find my hair—gripping, uncertain, pulling me closer in direct contradiction to whatever resistance she thinks she's maintaining.
Her jeans are halfway down her thighs when I glance up. Her eyes are dark, lips parted, breathing ragged. "Still think my mouth has zero applications?"
"Shut up…" she gasps.
I smirk against her skin before hooking my fingers into the waistband of her panties and peeling them down. Christ. Her cunt is already glistening, swollen lips parted like an invitation, the slick shine of her arousal coating her thighs.
I don’t even hesitate—I bury my face between her legs and lick, one long, filthy stroke from her tight little hole all the way up to her clit.
The sound she makes, fuck, a broken, gasping moan. My tongue circles her clit, slow and teasing, before I suck it between my lips, flicking the swollen bud with the tip of my tongue.
"Oh god, fuck…" Her thighs clamp around my head, trapping me against her. I slide a finger inside her, groaning at how tight she is.
"There it is," I murmur, sucking her clit harder, fucking her with my fingers in slow, deep strokes. "Come on, baby. Let go. I wanna feel you fucking squeeze me."
And she does. Her back arches off the bed, her cunt clenches around my fingers, and she sobs my name—something I'll be hearing in my sleep for weeks.
I stay with her through it. Gentle now, easing her down, pressing soft kisses against her thigh while her breathing shakes itself back to normal.
The silence afterward is warm, heavy. Her hand rests in my hair, fingers trembling slightly, and neither of us speaks until she does.
"I want to reciprocate." She sits up, jaw set with the determination of someone approaching a final exam. "It's only fair, and I'm not someone who takes without giving back."
"Harley, you don't have to…"
"I want to." She's already moving, pushing me back against the headboard with a stubbornness that would be intimidating if it weren't adorable. "Stop talking and let me… figure this out."
God, she's eager. Her grip is tentative at first, but the second she starts stroking, her thumb swiping over the head to spread the precum, I have to bite back a groan.
She’s leaning down, her lips brushing the tip before she takes me in, her hot, wet mouth sinking down just an inch.
Her tongue flattening against the underside of my cock as she takes me deeper, her lips sealing tight around me… And then I feel it, something that makes me flinch—her teeth, specifically.
I hold still—patient, encouraging, biting the inside of my cheek. She adjusts, tries again, and for a few seconds it's genuinely, achingly good, before the angle shifts and I feel the distinct scrape of something that should be classified as a weapon.
"Harley…" My hand finds her hair, gently, easing her back.
The strained laugh that escapes me is half pain, half genuine amusement.
"We're going to pause here. Not because you're not enthusiastic, the enthusiasm is, frankly, terrifying, but because I have a vested interest in keeping that particular body part intact."
Her face surfaces, flushed with effort and dawning mortification. "Was it that bad?"
"It wasn't bad, parts of it were spectacular. Other parts involved your teeth in ways I wasn't emotionally prepared for." I tuck a strand of hair behind her ear, grinning despite the lingering ache. "We'll practice, next time. I didn't plan on getting my dick bitten off today. Or ever, ideally."
The mortification wars with laughter across her face—I watch it happen in real time, humiliation and humor battling for control until humor wins by a landslide. She drops her forehead against my chest, her shoulders shaking.
"I can't believe you're laughing right now," she mumbles into my shirt. "I'm having a crisis of competence and you're laughing."
"You just tried to eat me alive in the least sexy way possible. What other response is appropriate?" I wrap my arms around her, pulling her against me, feeling her laughter vibrate through both our bodies. "For the record—the parts that didn't involve potential amputation? Incredible. We'll build on those."
"I hate you."
"You really don't."
She lifts her head, dark brown eyes bright with residual embarrassment and something warmer. "Next time, I'll be better."
"Next time," I agree, and the word settles between us carrying more weight than either of us acknowledges.